It's ALL about Owen
by mis palabras
Summary: Ok, so I'll admit to taking liberties here. I've pretty much ignored everything Boardwalk Empire apart from the delectable Owen Sleater. He still works for the Thompsons but in my short story they totally take a back seat as they play guardian to a haughty 19 year old who's come all the way from England to stay. Careful, there are sparks flying all over the place in this one ...


Tall, lean and graceful. His eyes are a watchful hazel. A fug of good humour surrounds him, his lips are almost always curved in an eager half smile. He takes my hands carefully, holding them in a way that tells me he sees me as fragile. A lady. He clears his throat before he kisses me, an announcement of intent. His lips are dry. He presses them against my own, reverently, building to a frenzy. His eyes are squeezed shut which I see because mine are wide open. His hands grow clammy the longer we kiss. But he is a gentleman and pulls back before his urges encourage him further. /div

After our time together, the mirror shows me a pale face, stubbornly freckled from time spent carelessly in the sun. My lips are swollen and from the inside, my tongue can trace the imprint of my front teeth.

Employed by my guardians some six months ago, his role is to ensure my well being; he carries my bags, acts as my chauffeur and has been my guide to Atlantic City. He can most often be found where I am; my father's reputation has followed me across the ocean and my guardians, the Thompsons, have decreed that it is not safe for me to be without an Owen.

He's not a native, he has travelled here himself, from the North of Ireland. His accent makes his words lilt and tumble. Shorter than Hugo, somehow more solid. Wider. Certainly stronger. His dark hair falls across his eyes, his moss green eyes flash with gold when he laughs, when he loses his temper.

I am haughty with Owen. I hear it in my voice, in the words I choose, the way I speak them. It makes it easier to deflect him, because you should understand that Owen ... doesn't know his place. The statements he delivers, the observations he makes. I'd like to finish this triple with "the questions he asks", but Owen doesn't ask questions. He merely guesses. It galls me that his guesses are so often correct.

Last week, we were eating in the kitchen. I prefer to eat there, with Cook and Agnes. And Owen too. Anyway, Cook had delivered rare beef sandwiches to us but soon after had whipped off her apron and gathered Agnes to go with her and sift through the wares of the hawker outside. Owen had made one of his usual pronouncements ("You don't like that much horseradish. Swap with me, I haven't put any on mine yet") and his knowing tone, his sheer assumption was really too much. Regardless of the fact that he was, irritatingly, correct, I hurled a "How do you know?" at him. Along with the sandwich, and unfortunately the plate, which shattered as it hit the range five feet behind his obnoxious head. I paused, surprised at my reaction to his unsurprisingly know-it-all tone.

After a second, I consciously employed the standard vague, amused - vaguely amused - facial expression that I usually adopt. I stood slowly, and pushing the chair back from the table, headed towards the stairs that led to the upper quarters. I kept my eyes fixed on my destination, I wanted nothing more than to be alone in my room to carefully not think about what had just happened.

I'd just reached the top of the stairs when a firm hand gripped my elbow and steered me left into the cupboard commonly reserved for larger items of cleaning equipment. Needless to say, it was not built to accommodate two adults and in order to fit, we had to stand inches apart. "Spoilt", he started with, "selfish" soon followed, and then "little bitch". His words bit into me, the truth of them stinging. Not that I let him know. Instead I gave into the temper that was never too far away where Owen was concerned and retaliated with insult after insult - "interfering", "know it all". To finally say all these words and to his face as well, it was exhilarating! But I was not prepared for what he would do next. He interrupted a particularly long tirade (I'd remembered to be incensed at the fact that he always assumed I'd want to start a day's shopping at Marguerite's) by closing what little distance there was between us, cupping my face in his hands and kissing me.

Kissing. Odd that one might use the same word to describe Hugo's fumbles. This was ...

His lips found mine in an instant, partially open as they were, mid word. And this was no tentative, sweet thing. Owen kissed like he did everything else; assertively, dominantly. His tongue slid in to tangle with mine, causing my breath to hitch in my chest. My hands reflexively gripped the front of his shirt, meaning to push him away but curiously lacking the strength needed to do so. His fingers slid into my hair, tilting my head back ever-so-slightly, to gain better access to my mouth. He stepped even closer, his hips meeting mine, his strong thighs flush with my own. My back hit the cold wall, providing much needed support, and still the kiss went on; his lips goading me further and further, my mouth opening to meet him and my tongue dancing with his. And still he pressed closer, his hands dropping to my waist where he pulled me to him, seeking to eliminate the slightest gap between us. His hands spread wide, thumbs brushing hips, fingers sliding across the curve of my bottom causing me to gasp in the briefest instances when his lips left mine.

As ridiculous as it sounds, we could have been there for minutes or hours, it was only Cook's call that eventually broke the spell. "Owen? Owen!" she bellowed. He - insolently, slowly - raised his lips from mine, reluctantly dropped his hands from my body. My breath was ragged. His eyes were glittering fiercely. I belatedly thought to slap him for his impudence but my hand shook and barely glanced off his left cheek. He took it though. Almost as payment. I waited for him to say something knowing, something that would add a blush to my already flushed cheeks but instead he silently opened the door, checked to ensure that the hall way was empty before gesturing me out.

I know about the passion men work themselves up into. I know too - thanks to Cook - that some men, the right men, know how to and care enough to encourage that passion in their wives too. These are few and far between according to Cook, who is smug on the matter in a way that makes me view Mr. Golding, her husband, in a new light. Agnes, on the other hand, insists it has nothing to do with the man's skills and everything to do with chemistry. How some men you just want to be with. In that way. And others, well ... that was when you lay back and thought of England. Or America. Wherever you happened to be at the time.

I sigh and in my head, swear inventively at the back of Owen's thick neck. He is driving me to the theatre and has conducted the short journey in near silence, with none of his usual observations. It irks me to find that the hush I have so often wished for is more distracting than his chatter. It's been days since ... the cupboard. And I can no longer deny that there has been a shift in our relationship. Well, from my side of things at least - he remains largely and annoyingly inscrutable. I, on the other hand, I am conscious of him in a way I was not before. His touch - assisting me into the car, up the stairs, through the door - is enough now to make me catch my breath. Especially when his fingers touch the small of my back. The soft skin in between my glove and my sleeve. Perhaps it is my imagination, but his fingers seem to linger now, making my pulse race. And, and just sometimes, I feel him watching. Steadily, watching.

My awareness, his watching, is exhausting. I've been on my last nerve, as Mrs Thomas is wont to say. In the aftermath of the kiss(ing), I have ratcheted up my frosty demeanour. How better to demonstrate my displeasure with the help who overstepped the mark? But I have found none of the usual sanctuary in my cold words and instead, find myself helplessly reliving those secret moments, again and again.

So. I have decided. Enough is enough. Having listened to Cook and Agnes, I feel sure that Owen's kisses were the type that precede sex. I can say that without blushing, I am 19 now - time I became more aware of these most adult of pleasures. And I feel equally sure that those kisses are not unique to Owen, surely every man could replicate them with a woman who was modern enough to enjoy them. I simply have to find out, and who better to pursue this with than Hugo?

Consequently, when Hugo contacted Mr. Thompson yesterday with news that he'd sourced tickets to Noel Coward's latest, I consented with alacrity to be his guest. Owen was in the room when Mr. Thompson passed on the message and after delivering my response, I'd turned from both men, hiding the smile that tugged at the corners of my lips. I would finally experience more kissing and if my plan went the way I hoped, erase Owen's distracting touch from my mind.

Owen applies the brakes and stops outside the theatre steps. I, sitting on the back bench, wait stiffly for him to come and help me out. As I wait, I fuss at my dress. I've chosen to wear a simple chiffon, but it swathes opaquely around my bare shoulders, quite daringly really, and I wonder now if my pale skin gleaming through the sage green is a little too much. But tonight is about getting results and besides, I liked how Owen's eyes had flashed as I'd walked down the Thompsons' stairs to meet him. "You're showing yourself off", he'd growled. As usual, disconcertingly close to the mark. I'd smiled at him (vaguely) but inwardly I'd thrilled at his reaction.

The passenger door swings open and and I prepare to climb down. Lightly taking Owen's hand, he is - as always - strong and powerful beneath my fingertips. Upon reaching the ground, I pull my hand from his but to my surprise, his fingers firm their grip around mine. I look up to find him closer than I anticipated, his heavy eyebrows are drawn together and his eyes are serious as they lock with mine. He draws breath to speak and I instinctively hold my own as I wait but before he can choose his words, a loud voice hails me. It is Hugo, he crosses the distance between us quickly, his long legs taking impossibly long strides. Owen's fingers obstinately hold their grip but Hugo effortlessly sweeps me away without even a glance at the brooding chauffeur.

As soon as we are inside, Hugo takes a step back to better appraise my appearance. He is visibly appreciative of the frothy chiffon, the tip of his tongue darts out to moisten his lips as his eyes trail excitedly over my décolletage. I preen a little under his gaze and push thoughts of Owen to the back of my mind.

Hugo, so at home in this environment of tinkling laughter and coupe glasses, waltzes me through the foyer of the theatre. I am introduced to face after face, "Yes, the Thompsons - you know, the Thompsons", he says each time, relishing the opportunity to place an emphasis on the name of my guardians. It occurs to me that Hugo is revelling in this tenuous connection to Atlantic City's well known treasurer. My appetite for the evening wanes but I am my mother's daughter, and so smile at the women and flutter my eyelashes at the men.

Soon enough however, we begin the climb up to Hugo's family's private box. Hugo's hand rests proprietarily on the small of my back. It slips lower and lower with each step I take until it very nearly sits on the curve of my bottom. I glance at Hugo, his face is shiny with bonhomie. Upon reaching our destination, Hugo welcomes me inside before closing the door firmly. It is a small space, a private box certainly but towards the cheaper end of the scale. Still, Hugo seems very proud of it and ushers me towards the centrepiece; a plush red velvet banquette. I look hopefully at the bottle of champagne chilling in the ice bucket. It occurs to me that a glass may quell the queasiness I am inexplicably feeling at the thought of what I am inviting. Why I should feel so anxious I don't know, reliving Owen's kisses brings me nothing but warmth but now I am on the verge of repeating the experiment, I feel positively bilious.

The banquette dips as Hugo joins me and his tight little cough interrupts my thoughts. I turn and ignore the fact that I have to force myself to sport a welcoming smile. It has been a cold day and Hugo's lips are chapped and dry, they catch a little as they press against my own. I greet his advances with a scientific mind, and press back. A guttural moan leaks through his lips and the touch paper is lit. Suddenly, there is an increase in fervour that I find difficult to document, so much happens at once. His tongue looms wet and large whilst his hands drop mine to better cup, squeeze and pinch at me.

My stomach flips and I fight down a dry heave. I push against his broad chest and then push again. His lips mouth feverishly, wetly, against mine - words that leave me in no doubt that these kisses are intended to precede sex, but unfortunately for Hugo, not with me. I push against him once more and this time, he draws back. An excited smile stretches his lips thin and he insists that I hurry back from the cloak room.

Having lingered for as long as is decent behind the locked door of the toilet, I emerge to wash my hands and carefully dry them before discarding the soiled towel in the basket. About to leave, I impulsively return to the wash hand basin. Soaping my hands again, slowly and methodically, I draw curious looks from the attendant. My eyes catch on the face reflected in the mirror. A pale face apart from a feverish blush high on my cheekbones. Tight lips, a crease forming between the eyebrows. Where was the sparkle that had been present ... been present the other time? I carefully dry my hands. Discard the soiled towel. Fight the impulse to begin the routine again, I can delay no longer and turn once more to the door. Come on feet, I urge, my heart heavy at the thought of returning to Hugo's box.

To Hugo. His dry lips and wet kisses. And his clammy, searching hands.

Upon exiting the bathroom, I turn right instead of left, heading downstairs instead of upstairs. My refusal to consider where I am going or what I am doing lends speed to my descent, as if my body wants me to arrive before my brain has made sense of the barely-a-decision that's driving me forward. The cold night air fizzes upon my fever bright cheeks as I burst through the theatre doors, I am outside at last. From the vantage points of the steps, I can see the Thompsons' car among a sea of others, parked to the right. I alter my course towards it but do not slow down. As I come closer, I spot Owen. Leaning against the passenger side of the car, smoking a cigarette. He looks up at the sound of my shoes on gravel and automatically swings open the passenger door, I barely register the look of confusion before I pull his face down to mine and press my lips against his.

He freezes. I falter.

But before What If can even be formed, his arms have formed a tight band around my waist and lifted me, almost to my tiptoes, crushing me against him. Taking control, he deepens the kiss I started and his warmth, smell, sheer solidity, is enough to scorch through the chills left by Hugo's urgent pawing.

Pulling away to take a breath, I felt his lips form a question against mine, "What's brought this on?" I smile and whisper back, "An experiment."


End file.
